Olympics Closing Ceremony

Olympic Flame Put Out By Wet Fart Closing Ceremony

Well, that’s one way to shove us rudely back into the real world. Last night’s Olympic closing ceremony did a disservice to the previous two weeks of triumphant, life-affirming amazingness by being mediocre, mimed and at times downright embarrassing. At least it cushioned the blow by starting our Monday “Nolympics” blues 12 hours early. It also underlined how blimming brilliant Danny Boyle’s opening extravaganza truly was.

This was everything I feared Boyle’s gig would be (very wrongly, as it turned out). Full of capital city clichés like black cabs, red buses, postcard landmarks and overly literal songs about London. Staffed by past-their-sell-by-date celebrities. And all a bit of a shallow shambles that failed to capture the spirit of the Games.

Much of it was horribly dated, like jukebox musical set in the Nineties. Fatboy Slim awkwardly mouthed the samples in his songs while stood inside a giant octopus. The much-hyped Spice Girls reunion was like a hen party on HRT, complete with Boris Johnson dancing along - when he should’ve been dangling from a zipwire all evening, pathetically waving two flags, just to cheer us up. After all that hysterical build-up, Geri Harridan and co only did one-and-a-half songs. Jessie J’s catsuit camel-toe and the weirdly ubiquitous Emeli Sandé got more stage time.

There are few sights more depressing than seeing the names “Stomp" and “Ed Sheeran” on a running order. Goatee-bearded Muse frontman Matt Bellamy looked like a cross between a gerbil and David Brent. Russell Brand was made to sing, as if a dim Sloaney researcher had got him mixed up with his character Aldous Snow. Annie Lennox and George Michael were cryogenically unfrozen and shoved out on-stage. Fragile George seemed like he was in a K-hole at a doof-doof leather club. Jessie J’s duet with Queen and three-way shout-off with Taio Cruz and Tinie Tempah wouldn’t have been out of place on an X Factor theme week or Children In Need – is that how high this was aiming? I half-expected some newsreaders to do the can-can or Louis Walsh to say, “I want. You. In. De Foinal.” Loads of acts sung from the back of cars, as if they’d got their Addy Lee to make a quick detour en route to The Priory.

Most performances were made worse by the twatty, mugging-to-camera dancers, all doing that rictus-grinning, jazzhand-waving, hammy over-acting thing they do in West End musicals. There was also an infuriating tendency to pricktease us with acts that weren’t there. We were played Kate Bush and shown Freddie Mercury on a screen. Parklife chimed in, as if to remind us that we were at the wrong gig (Blur were headlining over in Hyde Park). Beady Eye did Wonderwall, just to underline the fact they’re not Oasis. And why the chuff did the Kaiser Chiefs cover a song by The Who on scooters when the modfathers themselves were there too?

The worst example was David Bowie. He’d been rumoured to appear! There was a montage of his hits! The curtain fell away! Who was behind it? Naomi Campbell and Kate Moss looking bored on the back of a lorry. This fashion segment was especially ill-judged. We’d spent two weeks watching ordinary women do extraordinary things, then get overcome by emotion. Now we were supposed to get excited about scrawny chain-smokers walking up and down while scowling.

The production wasn’t even very slick. There were too many tedious interludes. The CD seemed to get stuck. While the athletes causally sauntered in (who knew fast people were so fecking slow?), we were subjected to the same songs that had been on 15 minutes earlier. Was it asking too much to make the Spotify playlist a bit longer and take it off “loop” setting? It was the tracksuited sportspeople I felt sorry for, all kettled inside a giant Union Jack when they badly wanted a pee, then to get drunk on two pints and stagger back to the Athletes’ Village for some of the Olympic-standard shagging which apparently goes on there.

There was the odd good bit. The endless montages went a bit Chris Morris at times, but were generally classy and stirring. Reggie Yates and Eddie Butler’s segments were exemplary, as was the punditry from Ian Thorpe and Michael Johnson. The fireworks and lighting were spectacular. The stadium looked great. Musical successes included the Pet Shop Boys, Elbow, Eric Idle, One Direction, Take That (featuring brave Gary Barlow) and The Who. Sadly by the time the latter two appeared, many viewers had drifted off to bed feeling faintly depressed.

To commentate, the Beeb had bafflingly opted to reunite the opening ceremony “dream team” of Huw Edwards, Hazel Irvine and Trevor Nelson. At least not-so-clever Trevor had the sense to stay quiet most of the time – perhaps he was dumbstruck reading his reviews from a fortnight ago – although he did pop up to call Take That a “boy-man-band” and note that “the lights take precedence”, when he clearly had no idea what the word “precedence” meant. Instead the babbling irritant mantle was taken up by the normally likeable Irvine, who wrongly identified Elbow songs and at one point quoted Dizzee Rascal like an embarrassing mum.

After a wearying three hours, it was a relief when they segued into the Greek national anthem and the Brazilians came out to take their turn. It seems Rio 2016 will comprise mainly of dancing roadsweepers, sexy ladies and Pele, which is nice.

Like the Olympic flame, the Games fizzled out with a deflating hiss. By the closing credits montage – soundtracked, naturally, by Emeli Sandé yet again – the comedown was well and truly kicking in. After two weeks of cynic-defying optimism, it’s back to shouting angrily at the TV and being sarcastic about it on Twitter. Team GB’s top of the medals table for that.

Gold medal for Balding – if you can get it over her hairGary Lineker and Sue Barker got the hosting gig inside the stadium last night, but every viewer knew it should’ve been Clare Balding. The bequiffed broadcasting colossus bestrode the final day, just as she had all fortnight. First came the news that she’d invented the “Mobot” on Sky1 panel show A League Of Their Own. Then she conducted the weekend’s standout interview, with silver-winning pentathlete Samantha Murray. It capped a great Games for La Balding, during which she, Gabby Logan, Matt Baker and Steve Cram really enhanced their reputations. These four embodied the Olympic spirit: dedicated in preparation, unstarry yet enthusiastic in execution, warm and inclusive in tone. The likes of Lineker and Mark Lawrenson should watch and learn. Or resign and bugger off to Talksport with their tails between their legs.

It's time! To face! Normal telly again!That’s enough Olympics. Let’s get back to normal now. How? With two tawdry reality franchises, of course. Saturday sees the return of The X Factor and on Wednesday, Celebrity Big Brother opens its tired, creaking doors to the latest batch of career-revivers and need-the-money merchants. Hotly-rumoured housemates include MC Harvey, Hevver off EastEnders, Bet Lynch off Corrie, Samantha “Chewing A” Brick, random rent-a-models Jasmine Lennard and Rhian Sugden, and Martin Kemp from Spandau Ballet (you’d think he’d be too busy spending the recent royalties from Gold). Best of all, Dog The Bounty Hunter’s allegedly flying in for it. He’ll soon have the others pinned down and handcuffed. The bemulleted bail bondsman to win.

THIS WEEK'S TOP TELLYHogan's picks for each dayMONDAY Veep (Sky Atlantic, 10pm)Last in the series for Armando Ianucci’s US satire. Will the President ever call Selina?

TUESDAY Accused (BBC1, 9pm) Stephen Graham and Sean Bean are both ace in this drama about a transvestite’s scuffle with a stag party